


Brushes

by reluctantabandon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, with one line of smut lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John...will you?  Sherlock said softly,<br/>John smiled over at him.  "Couch?"<br/>He won a small, tired smile in return.  "Please."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brushes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystradedoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystradedoodles/gifts).



> Written for mystradedoodles on tumblr, because the "John brushes Sherlock's hair" prompt was too delicious to pass up. 
> 
> As always, the characters herein belong not to me but to the immortal ACD, and to Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. They hadn't had a case in several days. John sat in his armchair with his laptop, poking away at his blog. Sherlock had been busy earlier with an experiment in the kitchen. John had heard him muttering to himself once or twice; there had been an incident of some particularly vicious invective and the sound of breaking glass. John had heard no sound for a while after that, however, and, stopping his tapping, he raised his head to listen. All was quiet; Sherlock must have retreated to his room. John resumed his typing, a small contented smile stealing unnoticed across his face.

"John." He glanced up to see his flatmate, who stood hesitating in the kitchen doorway, pushing a hand distractedly through his hair.

"John...will you? Sherlock said softly,  
John smiled over at him. "Couch?"  
He won a small, tired smile in return. "Please."

John stood, folded away his laptop, and settled himself lengthwise against the arm of the sofa, patting the space on the cushion between the V of his legs. Sherlock moved quickly over and settled against him with a sigh.

"Do you have it?"

Sherlock's arm rose silently above his head, a rubber-backed hairbrush dangling from his fingers.  
John took it from him, using the opportunity to slide his own fingers softly across the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock sighed, a little more contentedly this time, and snuggled back against John's chest.

"That's it, love. Just relax. I'll take care of you."

John loved this. Sherlock would sit for hours, lazy and boneless as a cat, and let John brush his hair. It wasn't just brushing; John moved through a rhythm, first brushing lightly with the hairbrush, smoothing through the thick waves, then putting down the brush and stroking Sherlock's head with his fingertips until his flatmate was all but purring. Then he would make tiny circles with his fingernails until Sherlock’s breathing was deep and even. Sherlock’s back would be pressed against John’s chest, but he would flop his head forward to give John better access. John would spend some time stroking and kneading the nape of his neck, every once in a while pressing a soft kiss there. Sherlock would exhale on a shiver and press closer to John. Then the whole process would start from the beginning: brushing, stroking, fingernails, kneading and kisses.

Sometimes, the soft, gentle kisses would lead to open-mouthed kisses on Sherlock’s nape. Sometimes, Sherlock would lean back against John and raise his hands to pull John’s mouth where he wanted it. Then the kisses would be deep and slow, and Sherlock would turn to press his front against John’s, and they would curl closer together. The stroking hands would venture further, lips and tongues brushing lightly, teasingly, until one of them broke and groaned and smashed their faces together, tongues urgent, hands fervently, reverently grasping and squeezing. Sometimes they would get up and stumble into the bedroom, falling over each other’s feet in their eagerness. Sometimes they would gasp and sigh and twine together in urgent movement, rubbing against each other and the couch until they were breathless and sweating, then pausing to tear at each others’ clothes until one or the other of them was spread out, wanton, pleading for the other to come on, come on, just fuck me already, do it, oh god I’m so ready, come _on!_ And sometimes the long, slow kisses would drag on, drugging them into somnolence until they splayed into sleep.

Not today, though. Today, John stroked and brushed, kneaded and scratched, and Sherlock hummed contentedly, hands curled under John’s calves, torpid and content.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was a vibration against John’s chest.  
“Yes, love?” John pressed one more sweet kiss to that tender spot.  
“Thank you.”  
“Welcome.”

Soon the only sounds in the flat were their deep, quiet breaths and the hushed sound of the brush stroking through Sherlock's dark curls.


End file.
